


Luck of The Irish

by Kestrealbird



Category: Fate/stay night - All Media Types
Genre: Apocrypha Verse, Cu is a thirsty bastard, Fluff, Humour, M/M, dorks being dorks, hair petting, honestly same, light banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 08:46:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15578115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrealbird/pseuds/Kestrealbird
Summary: “Bruised?” He asks, though they both know the answer. He lets himself grin anyway.Diarmuid growls, “shut the fuck up,” then pointedly kicks one of Cu Chulainn’s injured shins just to hear him curse.“Petty bastard.”





	Luck of The Irish

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, alright, listen. This is literally my OTP in the Fate franchise and I am MAD that we don't have enough fics for them like, yall are sleeping on this ship even though there's tonnes of fanart for them on twitter it is Unacceptable. I have a couple other fics for them in the works but I figured I may as well finish the fic that isn't just an AU first lmao

“Holy Mary of Israel would you be _gentle for once!_ ”

“Maybe if you wouldn’t move so much, Master, this whole process would be easier.”

“Just hurry up and -”

A loud crack followed by a muffled scream cuts off Einzbar’s sentence as Shakespeare cheerfully finishes setting his broken leg back into place. Cu Chulainn huff's a quiet laugh where he watches from the other side of the room, shaking his head as they begin to bicker back and forth.

The scene is all too familiar now. Just the other day it was Medb laying on the sofa getting her wounds licked by a dithering Master that was more concerned than she had any right to be over such minor injuries. The Red Faction is nothing to scoff at, that’s for sure, and Cu Chulainn is hard-pressed to go barging into their territory unprepared. Shakespeare had told him all he needed to know about that particular course of action and its consequences; luckily the only casualties had been a few no-name mages, but they’d all been laid to waste by the Red Rider within a few days.

He sighs, looking out of the window with a bored interest. It’s true that he doesn't want to charge in without a plan, but his Master is keeping him on too tight a leash for his own liking and it’s beginning to grate on his nerve. Cu Chulainn is the free-est spirit in this castle and even spy work would be preferable to staying holed up in this dingy area.

Cu Chulainn glances back at his companions, hesitates for just the briefest of moments, and silently disappears through the window, dropping down to the grounds below for a simple stroll. If anyone needs him they’ll call him. Simple.

The sun beats down through the trees as he hums a tune to himself, almost as if it’s trying to set the whole place on fire just for some entertainment. He doubts that Medusa would appreciate it, nature lover as she is, but the thought offers enough of a distraction that he almost doesn't notice the sounds of someone falling out of a tree.

The very loud “ _shit_ ” is pretty hard to miss, however.

Intrigued, Cu Chulainn ducks through low bushes and weaves around a thick oak tree, blinking in surprise when he recognizes the feeling of another Servant. That's odd. He certainly didn’t go beyond his Faction’s borders and this Servant clearly isn’t one he’s met, so if they’re here for stealthy reconnaissance then they’re doing a very poor job of it.

“...motherfucker…” a distinctly _male_ voice hisses.

Oh?

Cu Chulainn walks the last few feet he needs to get a good look at whoever is there and quickly covers his mouth to stifle the laughter that spills forth. The Servant’s eye twitches but he makes no move to get up where he’s sprawled on the ground, glaring at the cluster of squirrels that seem to have startled him out of...whatever he was doing.

“You - you okay there buddy?” Cu Chulainn manages to wheeze out between his fingers, nose wrinkling with mirth at the scene before him.

The Servant turns to glare in Cu Chulainn’s direction, hair falling out of his face to reveal a very unique beauty spot. “Just peachy,” he mutters, eyes intently taking in the way Cu Chulainn leans against his lance.

Cu Chulainn knows a curse when he sees one, and there’s only one Servant to his knowledge that has a curse on his face and hails from Ireland. The accent is a dead giveaway of that. _Diarmuid_ lets out a sullen sigh, standing up to stretch out his kinks and - ah. So he was sleeping then.

“Kind of an odd place to sleep,” Cu Chulainn remarks, snickering again as he looks up at the squirrels.

Diarmuid sucks his teeth, maturely flipping him off. “Forgive me if I missed the greenery.”

“Homesick?”

“Of all places why did it have to be Germany? I miss Ireland.”

That’s a sentiment they both share at least. “Still doesn't explain why you’re in _our_ home. Seems a bit risky just for a nap.” Not that he has any right to comment, given some of the shit he’s pulled in the past. Ah but he does miss his younger days sometimes.

Diarmuid shrugs. “Thought it’d be a bit of craic to scare the shit outta some of your mages is all.”

“Ha! Yeah they’re not the bravest lot. Pretty quick ter piss themselves at the slightest bump in the night. Makes for a good way to pass the time though.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing all this time then?” Diarmuid teases. “Scaring helpless mages instead of fighting the war?”

He’s one of the front line fighters then. Dammit that means he’s definitely noticed Cu Chulainn’s lack of, well, anything.

Cu Chulainn groans, slumping against the tree behind him with barely contained irritation. “Believe me I’d love to get involved but my paranoid little Master has me on a tight leash at the moment.” The only way he’s going to see any action is if someone does a head-on assault. Or, if he’s lucky, things get desperate enough that his Master stops being so damn jittery about letting him loose.

“And what,” Diarmuid smiles, “did you do to get such a leash?”

Damn this fucker and his observations. “That’s neither here nor there! It’s nothing important trust me!”

So he went a little overboard on that camp, it’s not like they didn’t cause a huge scene themselves. He just cleaned them up is all. No big deal. Diarmuid raises a skeptical brow but, blessedly, doesn't call him out on it. He blinks, looking off into the distance with an adorable pout. “Tch, sounds like one of yours is causing us a problem.”

“Rub it in why don't you,” Cu Chulainn mutters childishly.

Diarmuid doesn't rise to his antics. Bastard. “Bet you’re gonna regret wanting to get involved,” he says, fading out to go help whoever needs him.

“Bet you I won’t!”

“We’ll see about that!”

\----

A few weeks of continuous fighting later and Cu Chulainn begins to regret wanting to get out on the field. It wouldn’t be so bad, of course, if only that accursed Archer would just stop _targeting him, specifically_. Irritated by the nerve of it all, Cu Chulainn storms out of the castle, his coat tied tightly around him, in the hopes of getting some goddamn peace. Shakespeare watches him leave with no more than a half-hearted grunt of acknowledgment, his usual cheery disposition dampened by the endless work they’ve been given.

The downward mood spiral in this castle is beginning to get stifling. His Master calls out to him when he’s almost to the edges of their faction, but Cu Chulainn steadfastly pretends that he’s gone mentally deaf. If anything he’s more pissed about Diarmuid being _right_ then he is about his own exhaustion.

Motherfucker has no reason to look that gorgeous when he’s dancing across the battlefield either, with his hair all silky looking and his body that damn flexible. Getting booted in the chin had been worth it just to feel the power behind that man’s legs first-hand.

It makes him wonder what it might be like to have those legs on either side of his head, thighs squeezing while he-

Nope! No! Not going down that road. Not tonight.

Shaking his head he takes a few sudden turns and keeps walking for a few more miles until he ends up at a pub in a nearby village. It’s nothing fancy but it sure beats the piss poor excuse for alcohol that the Master’s drink in the castle. The bartender barely gives him a glance when he enters.

There’s a heated argument in the far corner of the place, and one of the barmaids is flirting very obviously a patron or two, clearly hoping to get a tip or something for her show. Shaking his head, Cu Chulainn turns back to the bartender just in time to be asked, “the usual?”

He lets a wry smile touch his lips. “Something a bit stronger tonight. Like the rum you’ve got under the counter.”

It isn’t much of a surprise when the bartender, good humoured as always, denies him that request and instead hands over a half-poured bottle of vodka. Cu Chulainn accepts it with mocking reverence and with a nod he exits the pub, finding a copse of trees to sit under and rocks to lean against. He downs the bottle within a few minutes, not even bothering to try and fight off whatever effect it might have on him. It always took a while for him to get drunk even before he became a Servant anyway.

“Luck of the Irish,” he mutters, placing the bottle on the grass beside him.

“Pretty sure our luck is uniquely terrible but I commend the optimism.”

Cu Chulainn silently commends himself when he doesn't jump out of his skin, instead turning to level Diarmuid with an icy glare that seems to amuse the other Servant more than anything. He looks as about as tired as Cu Chulainn _feels_. Diarmuid winces as he lowers himself next to Cu Chulainn, so close their shoulders are almost brushing.

“Bruised?” He asks, though they both know the answer. He lets himself grin anyway.

Diarmuid growls, “shut the fuck up,” then pointedly kicks one of Cu Chulainn’s injured shins just to hear him curse.

“Petty bastard.”

“Flirtatious asshole.”

Cu Chulainn raises his hands in a shrug that says ‘whatever works, amiright?’

Diarmuid huff's but leaves it at that. The first time Cu Chulainn had flirted with him, it’d taken Diarmuid so off guard that the other Lancer had managed to throw him into a building with little more than a grunt, but since then it’d simply become...a _thing,_ so to speak. He doesn't exactly return the flirtations but neither does he offer many complaints about them, and, if anything, he finds himself looking forward to whatever inane off-handed comments Cu Chulainn might say next.

Diarmuid is used to people regaling him about how handsome he his - some even suggesting that he might pass as a faerie prince - yet Cu Chulainn is the first one to ever call him gorgeous. He’s also the first person to ever outright joke about wanting Diarmuid to step on him but, well. Weird as that one may be, Diarmuid still finds himself flattered all the same.

He glances over at Cu Chulainn with consideration - takes in the way he’s breathing the air and looking up at the stars. Absently he mutters, “you’re not so bad yourself, you know.”

Startled, Cu Chulainn blinks, turning to Diarmuid with a confused frown. “What?”

“You called me ‘gorgeous’ once, right? Just saying that you’re not so bad yourself is all.”

Surprisingly, Cu Chulainn’s eyes go wide as saucers, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Uh, okay?”

Self-consciously, Diarmuid turns away, a flush high on his cheeks, completely unprepared for such an adorable reaction. Then, before he can let himself savour the atmosphere, Cu Chulainn suddenly exclaims, grin evident in his voice, “holy shit you find me attractive!”

Diarmuid whips his head around fast as lightning. “Don't make me take it back,” he warns.

“Nope!” Cu Chulainn responds, popping the ‘p’. “Can’t take it back now Diar. It’s out there for the whole world to know.” He makes a dramatic, grand gesture at the trees that surround them, and Diarmuid laughs despite himself, completely taken in with Cu Chulainn’s antics.

The last of their tension drains as they continue bickering back and forth, eventually devolving into some kind of tickle fight which ends with Diarmuid pressed against the rocks, laughing himself to tears as he fends off Cu Chulainn’s devilish fingers. “Okay, okay! I give up, I give up, you win!”

Diarmuid’s voice is breathless and happy and his eyes are glittering in the low light of the moon. Cu Chulainn backs off, grin stretched so far it threatens to split his face in half, but, as Diarmuid moves to right himself, Cu Chulainn turns around then flops backwards against him, slumping down so his head rests under Diarmuid’s chin. The quiet ‘oof’ he hears behind him is more than a little satisfying.

Diarmuid shoves him off just a little but relents quickly when Cu Chulainn claims “winner’s rights.”

Sighing, resigned to his fate, Diarmuid closes his eyes, head leaning back against the stone behind him, and subconsciously reaches out to card his fingers through Cu Chulainn’s hair, frowning when he feels a knot. Oblivious to the sudden stiffness in Cu Chulainn's shoulders, he takes out the man’s hair tie and begins gently undoing the tangles and brushing out the knots with his fingers, an old habit he’d had when men and women alike would lean against him back in Fianna.

Normally Cu Chulainn would punch anyone who so much as _suggested_ touching his hair but...Diarmuid’s ministrations are soothing; gentle. Maybe the alcohol is finally taking effect, because he finds himself closing his eyes and leaning back into the touch with a hum - an almost purr, even. To his credit Diarmuid hardly reacts to the sudden weight leaning against him, simply shifting to find a more accommodating position, hands never stopping where they card through Cu Chulainn’s hair.

In his past life, he had a lover who would play with his hair whenever she was able; braiding and unbraiding a hundred times before she was satisfied or he batted away her hands, finally irritated with the feeling of his strands being tugged. He barely remembers her face now, only the way it felt when she would tug his hair and lift her skirts for him to slip underneath. He doesn't mourn the loss of her memory, not like he’s seen other Servants do, anyway, but he does miss having someone to lay with after days of stress and bloodshed.

The other Servants are attractive, certainly, and more than once he’s found himself imagining what it might be like to take one to bed, but he’s hardly found the time to properly indulge himself, and even Medb, despite her obsession’s, is rarely seen stalking the halls after long days of work. Still his mind drifts to thoughts of Diarmuid’s fingers harshly gripping his hair, perhaps even jerking him off with the same fluid movements they’re doing right now.

Cu Chulainn sighs into the breeze that stings his cheeks, barely resisting the urge to groan with appreciation as Diarmuid scratches in just the perfect way. “Keep doing that and I’ll fall asleep,” he mumbles, limbs getting heavy as lethargy creeps into his bones.

Diarmuid chuckles from behind him. “Would that be so bad? You look as if you need it.”

“Mmm. Is that your sinister plan? Getting me a good night’s rest? How diabolical of you.”

He can hear the smile in Diarmuid’s voice when he whispers, “my villainous plot has been exposed, oh whatever shall I do now?”

Regrettably, Cu Chulainn opens his eyes, tilting his head back to look Diarmuid in the face and finds himself staring at half-lidded eyes that reflect the moonlight and a content sort of not-smile that is far too soft to be legal anywhere. Somehow, despite the gentle touches and soft expression, Cu Chulainn can see why Diarmuid could once be mistaken for a wolf capable of taking on a human form.

 _It's the eyes,_ he thinks, the way they reflect the light and catch on shadows. He shivers in the cool night air, twisting out of Diarmuid’s lap to stand, stretching out his kinks just to show off the muscle that pulls taut against his clothing. Diarmuid dutifully lets him go and Cu Chulainn can see the way his eyes darken ever so slightly at the obvious display.

It’s tempting. He could very easily lean back down and slowly push Diarmuid to the ground and test how far the other Lancer would be willing to go but he hardly has the time to spare for such activities. He’s put off returning to his Master enough as it is, any longer and they might start keeping him on a proper leash. The thought makes him inwardly scowl, neck itching with a phantom feeling he’d much rather ignore than pay any attention towards.

Diarmuid sighs, leaning back on his hands with an irritated suck of his teeth. “You really should leave soon, you know.” Cu Chulainn raises a brow, silently prompting for a reason. Diarmuid pointedly inclines his head to the East. “Our Caster is on her way over here and I’d rather not get pulled into another scuffle just get.”

Silently, Cu Chulainn agrees with him, wincing as his new bruises sting when he moves. That Red Archer really was a pain in the fucking ass to deal with.

It seems a shame to leave without getting _something_ out of his fellow Lancer, however, so it’s with a sparkle to his eye and glint in his smile that Cu Chulainn leans down and places a kiss on Diarmuid’s lips, swiping his tongue into the other’s mouth for a quick taste before he straightens, licking his lips with satisfaction. Diarmuid doesn't look at all surprised by the action. He smirks up at Cu Chulainn, a devious promise in his gaze and he presses back against the stone, closing his eyes so he can play ignorance as Cu Chulainn leaves the scene.

He doubts that the Red Caster will be fooled so easily, but that just makes this all the more _thrilling_.

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: I'm an idiot who forgot to explain this before BUT the reason Cu mentions Dia being mistaken for a wolf is because in Irish literacy wolves were closely linked with the practices of the Fianna. Warriors were often depicted with canine attributes and shared a common motif of a wild, dishevelled or naked appearance.


End file.
